


Recovery

by warm_nostalgia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Depressed John, Drabble, F/M, Mary Dies, Not Happy, Worried Sherlock, a bit depressing, a little dark, even slightly disturbing, i'm sorry this isn't happy at all though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2562638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warm_nostalgia/pseuds/warm_nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Take care of her. I really did love you, John. That much wasn't faked," she had choked out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

The familiar smell of gun powder still assaulted the air around John two days after.

Perhaps it was hallucinations of some sort, John contemplated as he stood in the nursery and held a clean, dainty handkerchief of Mary's in his shaking hands. Such a piece that represents the Mary Morstan side of her. 

Mary _Watson._

Represent _ed._

What _was_  her other half? It didn't matter much now, he supposed — both were dissolved from this lifetime.

John steeled himself and finally turned on his heel to face a concerned Sherlock at the door. He knew he had been watching for a while because John had been too quiet. It was a funny situation the two were currently entangled into. A turning of tables, really. Sherlock was _his_ caretaker for once.

"If you don't mind, staying at the house just...just a week or so. As long as you can stand me. Less than. Um, I — I don't think I want to be left alone," he had asked yesterday. 

"I'll be in by tonight," Sherlock had promised after a moment of hesitation.

Sherlock was reminding him to eat, drink, sleep now. Over the next weeks, as 221B collected minimal dust (minimal in thanks to a certain landlady), cups of tea and coffee were made for John, most cases would be put off, and funeral arrangements would be settled. 

It was nearing midnight, now, and John glanced away from Sherlock and back to the kerchief. 

"Goodnight?" the detective questioned, expression falling into a more sympathetic one when no one watched.

"Just getting her settled. Goodnight, Sherlock."

There was a long pause in which Sherlock approached slowly, squeezed John's shoulder quickly, and left silently. John's eyes didn't open until he heard the guest room door shut.  

Replacing the kerchief onto the dresser, John felt a rush of tears flood his eyes, and reached into the crib for his infant daughter, who squabbled silently in his arms and fluttered her thin brown eyelashes. She protested with a tiny, high-pitched grunt and kicked once. John brought her to his chest, cradling her gently as he whined. 

"My baby girl," he whispered. He pressed a soft kiss on her fuzzy head. "Oh, my baby girl." 

The doctor sucked in a trembling breath. 

In a moment, his mind drifted to Mary, bleeding out, saying his name one last time, whispering things that physically hurt to admit, and laughing breathlessly through the anguish.

 _"Take care of her. I really did love you, John. That much wasn't faked,"_  she had choked out, before finally clutching her chest and screaming, whimpering in seizing terror as she lost consciousness.

John swiped at his dripping wet cheeks and choked on his breath, bouncing the bundle in his arms and kissing her head again. The baby whimpered as if sensing her father's emotion.

For a moment, London was silent beneath them. The world had spared them a minute of recovery.

"Hush. I've got you," John murmured to his daughter. "Shush, now." 

Once more, he closed his eyes and willed the stench of a fresh bullet torn from its exit to disappear.

"Daddy loves you," John rasped. "Daddy's got you." 

 

 

 


End file.
